George W Bush and the Sorceror's Stone
by CelticMargarita
Summary: A political spoof of the Harry Potter series. Staring George W. Bush, Bill Clinton, Condoleeza Rice, Abraham Lincoln, Sam Brownback and vairous others.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: How exactly am I to do this? Well the characters aren't mine, they are their own. And the plot (and much of the writing at least in this section) isn't mine either. I'm just responsible for combining the two. Oh, and, just so you know, I will be making fun of everyone in this story, even things that pertain to my own beliefs and experiences. Take everything with a smile and a grain of salt. Hope you enjoy and please feel free to suggest politicians, actors etc. for other characters. I really need someone for Snape.

Mr. and Mrs. Hall, of 983, Manor Rd, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. From their perfect three-quarters of an inch grass to their fifty-four inch plasma tv, it was easy to say that they were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious. The thought of the three smiling faces that appeared on the society section of the newspaper at least a month doing anything but trimming the garden, watching tv, or lugging around a leather briefcase was almost laughable.

Mr. Hall was a supervisor at a publishing company that had been in his wife's family for generations. It was now owned by distant cousins, and five years after he had first been hired, when his political affiliations had been discovered, he feared that he would be let go. But Mr. Hall was such a savvy business man and such a successful brown-noser, that they couldn't bear to fire him. He was a big, beefy man with a handlebar mustache that he shaved to resemble the one his great-great grandfather had in a faded picture that sat on the mantle place.

Mrs. Hall was thin with hair so pale it glowed in the dark and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on neighbors. The Hall's had a small son called Hampton and in their opinion there was no finer boy.

The Halls had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Bushes. Mrs. Bush was Mrs. Hall's cousin, but they hadn't seen each other in several years. Mrs. Hall pretended that she didn't have a cousin, because her cousin and her good-for-nothing-husband were as unHalllike as anyone could possibly be. The Halls shuddered to think what would happen if the Bushes appeared at their doorstep. The Halls knew that the Bushes had a small son too, but they had never seen him. This was another good reason for keeping the Bushes away; they didn't want Hampton mixing with a boy like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Hall woke up on the dry, crispy Tuesday on which our story begins, there was nothing about the empty sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the large state of Texas. Mr. Hall hummed as he picked out a beige tie with spouting oil pumps for work, and Mrs. Hall gossiped happily as she wrestled a screaming Hampton into his chair.

At half-past eight, Mr. Hall picked up his briefcase, pecked his wife on the cheek, and tried to kiss Hampton goodbye but missed because Hampton was now having a temper tantrum. "Kids," chortled Mr. Hall as he left the house.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar—a cat reading a laptop. For a second, Mr. Hall didn't realize what he'd seen—then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a cat on the corner of Manor Rd. but there wasn't a laptop in sight. What could he have been thinking? It must be a lack of coffee. He blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Hall drove around the corner he watched the cat in the mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Manor Rd.—no, looking at the sign. Mr. Hall gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove towards town he thought of nothing else except the closest Starbucks and a Venti caramel mochiato.

He forgot all about the unsavory occurrence until he passed a group of cloaked figures on his way back from lunch. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy, and their excited whispers made the veins in his head pulse. It was only as he stopped to wait for the light to change that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

"The Bushes, that's right, that's what I've heard—."

"—yes, their son George—"

Mr. Hall stopped cold. He could feel the blood cascade from his face. He felt his mouth open as he turned to look at the offending group but quickly shut it and hurried on. In his haste to escape he bumped right into a stranger.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost hell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was dressed like the disconcerting group that had caused him to flee only moments beofre. The man didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile. "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last. Even Donks like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"

And with that the old man walked his arms around Mr. Hall's wide middle and walked off.

Mr. Hall stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Donk, whatever that was. He hurried to his car and set out for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

The sight of the same tan tabby from that morning did nothing to improve his mood. It was now sitting on his fence.

"Shoo," said Mr. Hall, slamming his car door loudly. The cat did not move however, and settled for giving him a stern look.

Mrs. Hall had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Hampton had learned a new word ("Colored"). Mr. Hall tried to act normally. When Hampton had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, zooligists everywhere have reported that the states's prairie dogs have been behaving very unusually today. Although prairie dogs normally stay underground and are only briefly seen above, there have been hundreds of reports of them flocking back and forth across populated areas." A clip of twenty or so of the critters rushing around a shopping mall flashed across the screen. "Other states have related similar experiences. Squirrels in Illinois and Wisconsin. Lizards in Arizona. Experts are at a loss to say why prairie dogs no longer seem to fear humans. Maybe it's the summer sales that have brought them out." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. "And now, over to Jimmy Smith with the weather. Going to be a blizzard of prairie dogs tonight, Jimmy?"

"Well, Bob," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the little critters that have been acting oddly today. Viewers from Houston to El Paso have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Independence Day a little late. But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Mr. Hall sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Texas? Prairie dogs running through shopping malls? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Bushes.

Mrs. Hall came into the living room carrying two clear cokes. It was no good. He'd have to say something two her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er—Mary, dear—you haven't heard from your cousin lately, have you?"

As he expected, Mrs. Hall looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a cousin.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Hall mumbled. "Prairie dogs…shooting stars…and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today…"

"So?" snapped Mrs. Hall.

"Well, I just thought…maybe…it was something to do with…you know…her crowed."

Mrs. Hall sipped her coke through pursed lips. Mr. Hall wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Bush." He decided he didn't. Instead he said, as casually as he could. "Their son—he'd be about Hampton's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What was his name again? Gregory, isn't it?"

"George. Nasty common name, if you ask me. Too Catholic sounding."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Hall, his heart falling into his stomach. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Hall was in the bathroom, Mr. Hall crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front yard. The cat was still there. It was staring down Manor Road though it were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Bushes? If it did…if it got out that they were related to the pair of—well, he didn't think he could bear it.

The Halls got into bed. Mrs. Hall fell asleep quickly but Mr. Hall lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Bushes were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Hall. The Bushes knew very well what he and Mary thought about them and their kind…He couldn't see how he and Mary could get mixed up in anything that might be gong on—he yawned and turned over—it couldn't affect them…

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Hall might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Manor Rd. It didn't so much as quiver a garage door crept open on the next street, nor when a cow mooed in the distance. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have though he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard. He was wearing long robes, a black cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His brown eyes were dark, rich, and shining behind half-moon spectacles, and his cheek bones were very high and prominent as if he were malnourished. This man's name was Abraham Lincoln.

Abraham Lincoln didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived on a street where everything from his name to his boots were unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

He found what he was looking for in his large top hat. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again—the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twleve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were the gleaming eyes of the watchful cat. If anyone looked out there window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Hall, they wouldn't be able to seen anything. Lincoln slipped the Put-Outer back under his hat and set off down the street towards 983, where he leaned against the fence next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor Rodham."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She too, was wearing a cloak, a silky plum one. Her black hair formed large circular curls around her face. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a line of pointy wood all day," said Professor Rodham.

"All day! When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor Rodham sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right. You'd think they'd learned a bit more sense, but no—even the Donks have noticed something's going on. It was on their news."

"You can't blame them," said Lincoln gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.

"I know that," said Professor Rodham irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Donk clothing, swapping rumors."

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Lincoln here, as though hoping he was going to say something, but he didn't. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Donks found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Lincoln?"

"It certainly seems so. We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a Peeps?"

"A what?"

"A Peep. They're a kind of fluffy Donk sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No, thank you," said Professor Rodham coldly, as though she didn't think this was the time for Easter candy. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone—"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense—for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Xalmarrk." Professor Rodham flinched, but Lincoln, who was sucking off the sugar from the head of a Peep, seemed not to notice. "You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Xalmarrk's name."

"I know you haven't," said Professor Rodham, a reluctant grimace of a smile creeping onto her face. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, alright, Xalmarrk, was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Lincoln, smacking on the head of one of his birds. "Xalmarrk had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too—well—noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Albright told me that she liked my new purple top hat."

Professor Rodham shot a sharp look at Lincoln and said, "The prairie dogs are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's finally disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor Rodham had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on the wall all day. "What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Xalmarrk turned up in Old Enfield. He went to find the Bushes. The rumor is that Barbara and George are—are—that they're—dead."

Lincoln bowed his head. Professor Rodham gasped.

"Barbara and George…I can't believe it…I didn't want to believe it…Oh, Abe…"

Lincoln reached out and rubbed a hand over her shoulders. "I know…I know…" he said heavily.

Professor Rodham's voice trembled as she went. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Bush's son, little George. But he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill George Bush, Xalmarrk's power somehow broke. That's why he's gone."

Lincoln nodded glumly.

"It's—It's true?" faltered Professor Rodham. "But how in the name of heaven did George survive?"

"We can only guess," said Lincoln. "We may never know."

Professor Rodham pulled out a large lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Lincoln gave a great sniff as he took a golden pocket watch out and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Lincoln, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Ventura's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor Rodham. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why, of all places?"

"I've come to bring George to his cousins. They're the only family he has left now."

"You don't mean—you can't mean the people that live here?" cried Professor Rodham. "Lincoln—you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son—I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for spare rib. George W. Bush come and live here!"

"It's the best place for him," said Lincoln firmly. "They will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor Rodham. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous—a legend—I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as George Bush day in the future—there will be books written about George—every child in our world will know his name!"

"Exactly," said Lincoln. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can't you see how much better he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"

Professor Rodham opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then added, "Yes—yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Lincoln?"

"Ventura's bringing him."

"You think it—wise—to trust Ventura with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Ventura with my life," said Lincoln.

"You can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to—what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence above them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street; it swelled to a roar as they looked up at the sky—and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was a good head taller than any normal man and his neck was at least twice as big around. His head was completely bald and his hands were the size of trash can lids. His feet, in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

"Ventura," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And were did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Lincoln, sir," said the wrestler, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Billy Graham lent it to me. I've got him sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir—house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Donks started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Waco."

Lincoln and Professor Rodham bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of dark brown hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like an interlaced hammer and scythe.

"Is that were—?" whispered Professor Rodham.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something abut it, Lincoln?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one above my left knee that is a perfect map of the New York subway system. Well—give him here, Ventura—we'd better get this over with." Ventura grunted and thrust the child into his arms. Lincoln walked to the front door. He laid George gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside George's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood around and looked at the little bundle. Ventura shifted uncomfortably. Professor Rodham blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Lincoln's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Lincoln finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Ventura, the word a grumbled jumble. "I'll be taking Billy his bike back. G'night Professor Rodham—Professor Lincoln." With that Ventura swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor Rodham," said Lincoln, nodding to her. Professor Rodham blew her nose in reply.

Lincoln turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Manor Rd. suddenly glowed orange and he could make out a tabby slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see a bundle of blankets on the step of 983.

"Good luck W," he murmured. He turned his heel and with a swish of his cloak he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Manor Rd., which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the ver last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. George Bush rolled over inside the blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the leter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not know he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Hall's scream as she opened the front door to the newspaper, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Hampton…he couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To George W. Bush—the boy who lived."

Emaleneangel: although every character here is based off a real person it is obviously not reality so don't sue.


	2. Chapter 2

Emaleneangel: Once again, I don't own anything

The Impatient Cow

Nearly ten years had passed since the Halls had woken up to find their cousin on the front step, but Manor Rd. had hardly changed at all. The sun rose on the same tidy front lawns and lit up the brass numbers over the Hall's garage door, it crept into their living room, which was almost exactly the same as it had been on the night when Mr. Hall had seen that fateful news report about the prairie dogs. Only the photographs on the mantel piece revealed how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach ball wearing different-colored bonnets—but Hampton Hall was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a large blond boy riding his first bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a game of football with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother. The room held no sign at all that another boy lived at the house.

Yet George Bush was still there, asleep at the moment, but not for long. Mary Hall was awake and it was her shrill voice that made the first noise of the day.

"Up! Get up! Now!"

George woke with a start. She rapped on the door again.

"Up!" she screeched. George heard her walking toward the kitchen and the sound of the frying pan being slammed on the stove. He rolled onto his back and tried to remember the dream that he had been having. It had been a good one. There had been a flying motorcycle in it. He had a funny feeling he'd had the same dream before.

Mrs. Hall was back outside the door.

"Are you up yet?" she demanded.

"Nearly," said George.  
"Well, get a move on. I want you to look after the gravy. And don't you dare let it curdle. I want everything perfect on Hammy's birthday."

George groaned.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing, nothing…"

Hampton's birthday—how could he have forgotten? George got slowly out of bed and started looking for socks. He found a pair under his bed and, after shrieking and shaking a squirming spider out, put them on. George should have been used to spiders, the outhouse where he slept was full of them, but he could never quite stomach their rapidly moving legs.

When he was dressed he went down the hall into the kitchen. The table was almost hidden beneath all of Hampton's birthday presents. It looked as though Hampton had gotten the new video games he had wanted, not to mention the second television and the racing bike. Exactly why Hampton wanted a racing bike was a mystery to George as Hampton was very fat and hated exercise—unless of course it involved punching somebody. Hampton's favorite punching bag was George, but he rarely caught him. George may not have looked it, but he was fast.

Mr. Hall entered the kitchen as George was stirring the gravy. Smoke hissed with every turn of the spoon.

"Comb your hair!" he barked, by way of a morning greeting.

About once a week, Ralph Hall looked over the top of his newspaper and shouted that George needed a haircut. George must have had more haircuts than the rest of the boys in class combined, but it made no difference. His hair simply grew all over the place.

George was frying up ham and bacon by the time Hampton arrived in the kitchen with his mother. Hampton looked a lot like his father. He had a large pink face, not much neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick sandy hair that lay smoothly on his fat head. Mary Hall often said that Hampton looked like an angel—George often said that he looked like a transvestite pig.

George put the eggs, bacon, ham, pancakes, biscuits, and gravy on the table, which was difficult as there wasn't much room. Hampton meanwhile, was counting his presents. His face fell.

"Thirty-six," he said, looking up at his mother and father. "That's two less than last year."

"Darling, you haven't counted Auntie Sandra's present, see, it's here under this big one from Mommy and Daddy."

"All right, thirty seven then," said Hampton, going purple in the face. George, who could see a huge tantrum coming on, began wolfing down hi bacon as fast a possible in case Hampton turned the table over.

Mrs. Hall obviously sensed the danger too, because she said quickly, "And we'll buy you another two presents while we're at the baseball game today. How's that, my prince? Two more presents. Is that alright?"

Hampton thought for a moment. His face scrunched up under the intense concentration. "So I'll have thirty…thirty…"

"Thirty-nine, angel," said Mrs. Hall.

"Oh." Hampton sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest package. "Fine."

Ralph Hall chuckled.

"The kid wants his money's worth, just like his father. Thata boy, Hampton?" He ruffled Hampton's hair.

George had never really been a sports fan (whenever Mr. Hall watched them on the T.V. he wound up in a decidedly bad mood and usually broke something that George was forced to fix) but there was something distinctly different about watching it live. The smell of freshly mown grass, the crack of a bat as it made contact, but most of all the emotion of the crowd as it rose and fell with each passing play, taking George along with it. In fact everyone was so wrapped up in the game that the Halls and Hampton's friend Richard completely forgot about George until half time.

"Take this and meet us back here in fifteen minutes. Now remember, don't cause any trouble," said Ralph Hall, handing George a dollar as they filed out to the concession stands.

"I'm not going to do anything," grumbled George. But Ralph didn't believe him. No one ever did.

For about ten seconds George was ecstatic over his rare bout of freedom. Normally the Halls were too nervous that he would do something, but they must have figured that in such a large group of people no one would notice a poorly clothed pre-adolescent. His happiness dissipated however the moment he laid eyes on the menus. Fries alone were a dollar sixty, not to mention what a drink and burger would cost. His stomach rumbling George pushed the crisp bill into the woman's hand and asked for a small coke.

With ten minutes left before he had to meet back up with the Halls, George decided to roam around the panoply of sights and sounds. Children screamed for souvenirs, teenage girls made eyes at teenage boys, and the sound of hundreds of flushing toilets echoed like ambient music around the cemented curve.

"Make it move," whined an all too familiar voice pointing at a rather large cow. George quickly hid behind a man with a fanny pack. Sure enough it was Hampton and his father standing in front a glass case filled with cows. Ralph tapped on the glass but it didn't move. Bobby Joe's Fresh Beef blinked in red neon above them. A woman to Hampton's left pointed out one of the cows and the man behind the counter quickly rushed to the stall and coaxed the cow out with some grass. George couldn't help but turn away as the man started to tie the cow's legs together.

"Do it again," Hampton ordered. Ralph complied, but once again nothing happened. "This is boring," Hampton groaned, and then shuffled away, his father in his wake.

Intrigued, George finally stepped out from his hiding spot. Walking forward, he pressed his hand gently against the glass in front of the cow Hampton had been bothering. The cow suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it stood until its eyes were on level with George's.

It winked.

George stared. Then he looked quietly around to see if anyone was watching. They weren't. He looked back at the cow and winked too. The cow jerked its head to where Hampton and Mr. Hall were standing in line. It gave George a look that said, quite plainly, "I get that all the time."

"I know. It must get really annoying."

The cow nodded vigorously.

"What's your name, anyways?"

The cow jabbed its head at the little sign next to the glass. 'Old Blue. Bovine from Brazil.'

"I didn't know that they ate male cows."

"Oh real sensitive," squealed the cow, much to George's shock. He jumped slightly, but upon seeing that no one else was paying attention, he turned back to the cow. "Not only does he point out that I'm about to be eaten, he tells me I look like a steer."

"I'm sorry, really. It's just I thought Old Blue was a boy's name."

"Well my owner had six daughters. He was sick of the estrogen and decided to name me after the son he never had."

"Oh," replied George dumbly, as if that explained everything. A deafening shout sounded behind George and made them both jump. "HAMPTON! MR. HALL. COME AND SEE THIS COW! YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT IT'S DOING."

Hampton came waddling over to them as fast as he could.

"Move," he huffed, elbowing George out of the way. Caught by surprise, George fell hard on the concrete floor. What came next happened so fast that no one saw how it happened—one second, Hampton and Richard were leaning right up close to the glass, the next, they had leapt back with howls of horror.

George sat up and gasped; the glass from the cow's tank had vanished. The cow daintily stepped out onto the floor. People throughout the concession area screamed at the herbivore and ran towards the exits.

As the cow walked slowly past him, she turned to George and said, "Rio, here I come. Gracias amigo."

"Wait a sec," cried George, standing up. "I thought you were from Brazil."

"Um…yes." The cow stopped uneasily, but people continued to rush by in abject horror.

"They don't speak Spanish in Brazil. They speak Portuguese." For several moments the cow's eyes shifted back and forth. Suddenly she sprang forth and darted out of the stadium as fast as her obese figure and spindly legs could carry her.

Mrs. Hall simply refused to stay for the rest of the game, saying that if the place couldn't even keep its livestock in place then how in the world were they to feel safe from flying bats or the colored population that congregated. Hampton and Richard, despite their initial fear could only gibber. As far as George had seen, the cow hadn't done anything except playfully snap at their elbows as it passed, but by the time they were all back in the Hall's car, Hampton was telling them how it had nearly bitten off his leg, while Richard was swearing it had tried to decapitate him with her razor sharp tail. But worst of all, for George at least, was Richard calming down enough to say, "George was talking to it, weren't you?"

Mr. Hall waited until Richard was safely out of the house before starting in on George. He was so angry he could hardly speak. He managed to say, "Go—outhouse—no meals," before he collapsed on the LazyBoy, and Mrs. Hall had to run and get him a large beer.

George lay in his dark outhouse much later, wishing he had a watch. He didn't know what time it was and he couldn't be sure the Halls were asleep yet. Until they were, he couldn't risk sneaking inside to get some food.

He'd lived with the Halls almost ten years, ten miserable years, as long as he could remember, ever since he'd been a baby and his parents had been freakishly decapitated by a tilt-a-whirl. He couldn't remember being in the tilt-a-whirl when his parents had died. Sometimes, when he strained his memory during long hours in his outhouse, he came up with a strange vision: a blinding flash of red light and a burning pain on his forehead. This, he supposed, was the accident, though he couldn't imagine where all the red light came from. He couldn't remember his parents at all. The Halls never spoke about them, and of course it was forbidden to ask questions. There were no photographs of them in the house.

When he had been younger, George had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take him away, but it had never happened; the Halls were his only family. Yet sometimes he thought (or maybe hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to know him. Very strange strangers they were, too. A tiny man in a violet cowboy hat had bowed to him once while out shopping with Mrs. Hall and Hampton. After asking George furiously if he knew the man, Mrs. Hall had rushed out of the shop without buying anything. A wild-looking old woman dressed all in green had waved merrily to him on a bus. A bald man in a very long sequin coat had actually shaken his hand in the street the other day and then walked away without a word. The weirdest thing about all these people was the way they seemed to vanish the second George tried to get a closer look.


End file.
